Warmth Without Heat
by KaiteeKay
Summary: A continuation off of Night Terrors, Sherlock and John again battle Sherlock's dark nightmares.


"Your battery is low. Please recharge your device."

Sherlock stared at the phrase carved into his phone's screen, hate almost leaking from his pores. The power's been out from the stupid storm, and will be out as long as the stupid storm keeps going on. John's already tried to just turn it back on from the box, but, stupidly enough, it was to no avail. He watched the battery symbol blink red as he sat in his chair. John dug through their closet meanwhile, hoping to find candles to battle away the darkness. His hand batted a box that rattled and he pulled it free to search. Success! He carried the box out to the front room and placed it down on the table. Sherlock stared at him as the noise upset his staring contest with the phone, "What are you doing?" He asked, phone still raised in the air. "We're going to be in the dark for awhile, might as well have some light." John placed a candle upon the table, then a few more. Some were melted, others not; some large, and some that were hardly larger than his thumb. Sherlock held a small interest, "Why do you have these, exactly?" John shrugged, "I guess. . I just came to have them. Useful in the long run, I would say."

Sherlock's interest had been lost long after the end of the sentence and he continued his match with the phone. John sighed, used to this, and started to place them in spots he deemed useful. The table first, then spots in the kitchen (the 'lab' John called it in secret), on the coffee table in front of the couch and even one on the bookshelf, although, that one got a glare from Sherlock. John then rooted through his room for a lighter to make it all fit together- but sadly to say, he was short an oar on the river. He went back out to the parlor to look some more. Sherlock's battle continued on, eyes intent. The silence was muting- until Sherlock broke it.

"On the dresser." He said, a twitch of not a single cell of his body. John jolted at the sudden break in the thick silence, but nodded in Sherlock's direction and hurried to his room. There sat the lighter Sherlock used. God knows for which of his many hobbies. John grabbed it up and set to work.

The rooms were filled with stars. Each candle it's own ball of bright gas in the harsh empty dark of the flat. John settled back into his seat, the excitement of his plan now snuffed out. Sherlock's staring was come to a soft decrescendo. The little percent that rested at the top of the phone was at one now. Sherlock watched as the animation for when the phone went into utter dark like it was a musical; Loud and full of emotion then a hush blackout. The phone slipped from his palm. That was it for him. The phone was forever gone in this endless night. He flicked his eyes up to John, who was only silently enjoying himself. It was far too dark for reading, Sherlock thought. Even with John's blasted candles. He stood, slowly and sluggishly, and turned for his sweet companion- music. Sherlock approached the instrument that brought the hectic life John drugged him with to fade away, like an alcoholic feeling sober through his dreams. He cradled it with ease, brought the bow up, looked to his new piece he was learning (which in fact would fit the mood perfectly). . but it was for naught, for the darkness enveloped the sheet music. Which a rough grunt he replaced the instrument and flopped back into his chair, features scrunched. Sherlock looked to John, then growled out, "How can you manage this? This is. . This is literal hell!"

John sighed. He wanted to snap back, 'Well you're so intelligent! Figure it out!', but the poor man had not the energy for an argument. All he could say was, "It's what normal people do."

Sherlock's learned that phrase now, like a dog learning to roll over, play dead, and stay. It also hit somewhere tender in his chest—his lungs? No. Somewhere closer to the middle. John was. . his closest 'friend' (friend is still a word that he's trying to learn), and of all the people Sherlock holds at that nickname—John continues to be like everyone else and say he is not "normal". "I don't like normal people." He hissed, crushing himself against the back of his chair with his arms folded.

John took in a big inhale of air through his nose, ready to yell, but yet it out through his mouth. No. Sherlock's just having a hissy fit. Let him relax, John told himself in his mind. He just shook his head and shifted so his head was turned away.

Sherlock steamed for awhile, millions of things trucking through his mind to try and entertain him. John meanwhile, just daydreamed of quiet evenings without meddling detectives constantly babbling about different acids or his many experiments that cause him to have the scars up his arms. John flinched when the dark detective rose and moved out of the room abruptly. Where was he off to, John asked himself.

The consulting detective was off to sleep in the cold silence of his room; he had enough of this. . idiocy. The grand panther stretched across the bed and wrapped up in the blankets. His disgruntled expression matched with the burrito he made himself made him look like an angry caterpillar. He shut his eyes with a huff rolled to face away from the door. He drifted off surprisingly quickly—which also describes the length in his sleep.

John got up with not a thought in mind when he heard the shout. The noise was engrained inside his mind so well that he would never forget the hellish sound. It's been so long since this has happened—he hurried to the room where the yell was exploding from. There was Sherlock, upright and gripping at nothingness like every time before. His fingers curled like they held a grip on something and his lips were curled in anger. He yelled in some code John could not decipher. Swiftly he crawled onto the bed and grabbed the man to hold against himself. "That's enough." He said to the slack weight against his shoulder. The weight flinched and Sherlock launched away from John, hissing. "I don't want you in here."

John pulled away, but snapped back, finished with Sherlock's temper. "You know very well that you can't sleep without—our arrangement. Stop acting like a child." Sherlock scrunched his face back up like he was in his caterpillar form again, and snarled back, "I was just fine without you before! I can do it again." John winced like he had another bullet rip through his shoulder. The doctor climbed out of the bed and snapped up a blanket from the closet. "Fine." And John was gone. Sherlock let a puff if anger leave his lips then dropped just to roll over.

Meanwhile, John made himself comfortable in the room that he had called his own once. The bed had a thin sheet of dust on the duvet. He crawled under the chilled blankets and curled up. This was so foreign to the seasoned man. He felt the ghostly feeling of where the other man settled comfortably against his side, face against his ruined shoulder. John tried to get himself to be comfortable—but nothing worked. The doctor pressed a pillow to his side, hoping to quell the absence of his detective, but alas, it was without use. He laid on his back and watched the shadows and lights scuttle over the ceiling's rough surface, then down the opposite wall from the passing cars, cabs, and people. It was so wrong with him on his own, he had come to realize. The medic shook his head. No. Sherlock was to face his demons alone tonight. John shifted to lay on his side—then the shout made it's swift crescendo. John tensed, ready to jump and save the day, but stopped himself. Sherlock's gone and pissed him off, so he's alone.

Meanwhile, Sherlock's nightmare ripped his psyche open and tore at the pieces. The dream was cloudy yet clear; like a frosted window; the shapes known yet not crystal. He was alone in a darkened home—the creature of his usual nightmares had returned and had driven him to the corner of the home. He knew the halls, windows, and frames, but refused to admit how. Sherlock's creature was yet to grab him up like usual, and he was letting the anticipation shake him whole.

A form passed the doorway of the bedroom—it was golden in the hushed darkness. The form was humanoid, with faded honey locks. . Harsh tanned skin opposed the honey. . Sherlock knew that honey from another place in his thoughts.

Where, though?

He thought, and thought, eyes never leaving the doorway as the form left.

It was so gorgeous. .

A torch in the dark; scaring away the multi-possible in the darkness.

Where. . .

The palace.

It had become clear now. The palace. The lovely palace that let him escape the nightmares some nights. With it's grand pillars and the lake that stood before it with strange colored fish which greeted the daylight of that world.

The couple on the steps; the tall pristine and elegant form and his shorter partner—faded honey and golden skin with the cane. Yes, that was it!

Why was the golden partner here? Why was it in this house of horrors, terrors, and words unspoken? He quivered in the corner, thoughts being shaken by the idea of the spirit. . . The monster's grand paw stabbed the boards in the doorway. Sherlock squeaked.

Slowly, the beast crawled in the door, long locks dragging. . heat yanking itself away from it's body. The beast brought darkness into the room. All the furniture, walls, windows, floor and ceiling turned black. The only light was the harsh blood red of the beast's eyes which bore into his soul.

Sherlock pressed himself farther back into the corner—hoping the wall would not be there and he could escape. But, no, no the dream refused to let him escape. The beast grew closer and closer, the temperature of the room spiked dramatically. Sherlock felt sweat (rather it real or dream) form on every inch of him—this was it. He knew what happened then, when the beast would come and wring him of all hope; of light, of dear thoughts, of reason.

From his perspective, the beast looked to have grown far too large in size to be real; the shadowy creature took up all the room; all the fresh air in his lungs, to where Sherlock couldn't breath. In a swift motion, he threw up his arms around his head, curved the length around his skull and pleaded—

Sherlock begged to be let alone. To be free; free of the beast's terror.

The beast did not respond. . only, the heat began to fade.

Sherlock let his ears focus—someone was yelling.

Sherlock uncovered his face to see—only to peek at the source- and tears raced down his face. The golden partner had returned with his beautiful glow and his strong voice. The words, lost to the dream, were strong, loud, and stabbed the beast every which way. It tried to battle against the stranger, but only failed as it began to shrink. Sherlock was absolutely dumbfounded as it dropped over in it's small form. The detective looked up to the glowing hero. . and knew. Knew who that was—knew the face, and every wrinkle, line, and curve; the shape, how it would look from behind, how it looked from above. . It was obvious.

It was—

Suddenly, Sherlock jumped awake, skin drenched in sweat and face scarred with tears. He tried to sit up—but something held him still. . It was John. John and his strong form. . his strong words hushing away Sherlock's fear. The detective knew now—he was always safe there, in John's arms.

After a bit of Sherlock recollecting his usual attitude, Sherlock finally apologized.

"I excuse my behavior before. . You could say I was—bored."

John only smacked his arm and laughed. That drew some soft chuckles form Sherlock. . then both were laughing. Slowly, the two rested together on the bed, the bed that both began to recognize as the place where they were most safe—for John had Sherlock's amazing mind there to save the day, and Sherlock had John's strength to hold his pieces together.

Soon, the two settled into one another. . silence filled every curve of the room. It was back to normal—The detective with his doctor, and the doctor with his detective.

And never again did Holmes be without Watson.


End file.
